The other day we ordered the carriage at an undue hour, and there were no guards, and there was such a fuss about it--the Military Secretary writing to the Captain of the Body Guards, and he blaming the Aide-de-Camp in waiting; and I thought of the time when the hackney coach _adjusted_ itself to the Grosvenor Street door, and of William de Roos’s sending Danford away from the play that the hack might seem an accident, as if the carriage had not come. Those were the really jolly days. I wish we could go back to them. You cannot imagine how I enjoyed your history of your children, those are the letters to send to India. Other people or papers tell public news. What a pleasure it is to have a letter! I am so glad you like Lord Morpeth,[438] I always did love him; I wish you would tell him to write to me in that odd cramped hand. Poor Mrs. Beresford, she goes on Wednesday next; I shall be glad when she is safely off. She takes a box for you, with a gown George gives you which I thought would be useful for your Castle drawing-rooms, and some handkerchiefs William sends you, which I have had worked for him by an old native, with a long white beard, who works like an angel. I mean to send my godchild a present the next opportunity. Yours, E. E. _Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._ GOVERNMENT HOUSE, _August 24, 1836_. MY DEAREST THERESA. After I wrote you that long letter of upbraiding for never having written to me, your Edinburgh letter, which had reached the respectable age of ten months, was forwarded to me, it having been mislaid with a large packet of other letters, and remained four months in the Custom House! So pleasant when one is almost stamping with impatience for letters--or rather, would be so, if the climate did not prevent those active expressions of feeling. I think I told you how the American edition of _Dacre_[439] had been one of my first purchases here, and I read it over with considerable pleasure. I do not know exactly what I mean, but I do not think you and your book are like each other. I do not mean any disparagement to either; there may be a very pretty fair mother with a very pretty dark child, both good in their way, but not like, and I cannot put your voice to any of the sentences in your book, or say to any part of it, “So like Theresa!” I am glad of that. I hate those _banale_ likenesses of books to their author. Why did you not tell me the name of your new book? I daresay everybody has read it and discussed it in England, and _I_ don’t know its name. And to think of you writing about it in that vague way to me, 15,000 miles off!